


The Adventure of the Mysterious Letters

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Humour, M/M, Mystery, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-28 03:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20056984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: John finds some unopened letters, and discovers that fate and destiny are more than just words in a dictionary.  (sorry--this was the best summary I could come up with that didn't give away the whole story)





	The Adventure of the Mysterious Letters

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: The Adventure of the Mysterious Letters  
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush  
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC1 with a slight crossover into ACD-verse  
PAIRING: Sherlock/John; Holmes/Watson  
RATING: Let's go with PG-13 for suggestive sexual situations and boykissing  
SUMMARY: John finds some unopened letters, and discovers that fate and destiny are more than just words in a dictionary. (sorry--this was the best summary I could come up with that didn't give away the whole story)  
SPOILERS: Not really, beyond some quotes from Sir Arthur's "Study in Scarlet", "The Sign of Four", "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs", and "The Adventure of the Lion's Mane". (It's all about the bees!) Oh, and I stole, ahhhh, borrowed a line from TBB.  
DISCLAIMER: These lovely boys belong to BBC1, Moffat and Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.  
DEDICATION: To the usual suspects, my dear friends--Ann and John, and the lovely Goddess Michele for the helpful beta.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm still slowly uploading my old fanfics from different fandoms. This one was originally posted to my livejournal January, 2012, and remains one of my favourites stories I ever wrote.

Four hours.

They had been at it for four hours. In the middle of July. In the middle of a heat wave. It was hot and muggy. They were mucky and sweaty. Well, John was. Even with the occasional summer wind that blew over his clammy skin. Even without his shirt, which he had stripped off long ago in an attempt to keep cool.

It hadn't worked.

Sherlock, of course, looked immaculate. As always. His only concession to the unbearable heat was to roll the sleeves of his tailor-fitted, dove-grey Prada shirt up to his elbows, and undo a couple of extra buttons, displaying a tantalizing triangle of tasty, creamy dirt-free skin.

God, John hated him sometimes.

"Are we almost done, Sherlock?" he fairly whined. John never whined. Moaned, complained, grumbled, bitched, whinged, occasionally begged (although that was usually confined to the bedroom) but never whined. But after four hours, in the heat and the filth and the grime, he felt he had earned the right to whine.

"Does it look like we're done?" Sherlock countered, reaching for yet another large cardboard box labeled 'school mementos'.

John glanced around the cramped, dingy, stuffy attic and sighed heavily. Not even close to done. In fact, it didn't even look like they had made a dent in the mess. "No," he muttered. "I guess not."

"Just remember, you agreed to this," Sherlock reminded him gleefully. "As I recall, you said, and I quote, 'Sounds like fun'. I TRIED to correct you on that point, but you insisted. . ."

"Yes, yes. . ." John interrupted huffily as he squatted down in front of a large, untouched steamer trunk. "I just didn't think 'do you want to help Mummy sort through her treasures?' meant a weekend shuffling old boxes and crates in a sauna."

"They've been forecasting warmer-than-normal temperatures all week, John," Sherlock replied patiently, digging through his box. "And I should think with all the time you spent in the desert you'd be used to the heat by. . .oh, look. . .Mycroft's third year school evaluation. Hmmm. . . 'does not play well with others'. Now THAT'S a surprise."

"And since when do you listen to the weather forecast?"

"Since I knew we'd be rummaging around Mummy's attic looking for her grandmama's antique diamond and emerald tiara. Although why she packed it away up here instead of keeping it in her jewelry box in the first place is beyond me. Well, well. . ."

"What? Did you find it?" John asked, eagerly.

"Hmm? No." He waved the sheet of paper in John's face. "But according to this, Mycroft got a 'B' in Geography."

"So?"

"So. . .we're talking about flawless little Mycroft here. Exceptional student, exceptional son. The *good* one. Insufferable little swot. And he got a B! In Geography, of all things. Rather ironic considering his ambitions to rule the world someday. No wonder he hid his teacher's eval up here."

"Still not getting it."

Sherlock gave John one of his patented, ‘why-must-I-be-surrounded-by-idiots‘ looks. "Oh, John. Do you know how hard I tried to live up to him? Can you imagine how difficult it was to follow in his impeccable shoes? To be constantly reminded that I should aim for perfection, 'just like your big brother, Mycroft'?" He said the last in a silly high falsetto. "And to find out he wasn't perfect after all--how delicious is that?"

"Quite delicious, I suppose," John replied, dryly. "Victory is at last yours."

"Indeed," Sherlock grinned, carefully folding the priceless sheet of paper and slipping into his shirt pocket. "I think I'll wrap it up and give it to him for Christmas. Can't you just see the look on his face when he opens it in front of the whole family?"

John just shook his head and smiled. "You are a horrid brother, Sherlock."

"I learned from the best. What have you got there?" he asked, nodding toward the open trunk.

"Not much," John answered, shuffling through the contents of the steamer. "Just a bunch of old journals, some photo albums, a few used sooty pipes, a single Persian slipper, an antique jack-knife." John scooped up a couple of books on beekeeping only to uncover a bundle of letters, tied neatly with a length of string. Placing the books on the floor, he carefully removed the packet and exhaled a gasp of surprise, which caught Sherlock's attention.

"What is it, John?"

The letters were old--judging by the yellowed paper and faded ink. They were unopened and there was no postage on them. They had obviously never been sent and never been read, except by the composer. But none of that was what had caused John to gasp.

The letters were addressed to John H. Watson, 750 Westbourne Terrace, London W2.

The return address on the envelopes read: Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker Street, London NW1.

He held the bundle out to Sherlock. "What are these?" the question tinged with curiosity and just a hint of trepidation.

"Letters?" Sherlock ventured.

John refrained from rolling his eyes, but just barely. "Gee, I was hoping for something a bit more insightful."

Pale, intense eyes perused John's bare chest as a smirk caressed Sherlock's lips. "My deepest apologizes, John. But I'm finding your state of undress rather distracting."

"I could cover up," John replied, returning the playful smile. "Of course, I run the risk of heat-stroke. . ."

"No, no. . . can't have that. I'll just work around it." Taking the packet from John's hand, Sherlock slipped out the top letter, placing the rest of the bundle on the floor beside him. He turned the letter over three times before holding it up to the light for a few moments, then bringing it back to eye-level to study it more intently. After a couple of minutes, he started relating his conclusions:

"It's fine linen-stock paper. Imported. Luxurious. Expensive. The lettering was done with a fountain pen, Waterman, most likely. The company introduced fountain pens in 1883, which would fit the timeline. Fine, oblique gold nib--the pen strokes are sure, confident, elegant. Right handed. Rather well-educated. The ink is high quality. It has degraded over time, but not excessively so, as inferior dyes would do. Again, expensive. Not something the vast majority of folks could have afforded. Judging by the yellowing of the paper and the fading of the ink, I'd say these letters must be a hundred years old at least."

Once more, John was impressed with Sherlock's observations, with one glaring omission. "You've missed the most obvious thing," he said.

Sherlock's right eyebrow quirked upward. "Which is. . .?"

John pointed to the addressee. "That's my name."

"So I noticed."

"Well?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "John and Watson are not very original names."

"Thank you for that," John deadpanned

"I just mean--they're both rather common. It's not implausible to believe that there have been many John Watsons in England through the years. I'd even propose that there are probably several dozen residing right now in London alone."

"But even the middle initial is the same!" John pointed out.

"As I said--numerous John Watsons. It stands to reason a percentage of them would have middle names beginning with 'H'."

"And what of the return address?" John queried.

"Not so mysterious as it might appear. 'Sherlock' is an old family name. You'll find it on a handful of branches on the Holmes' family tree. In fact, I had a great-uncle named Sherlock. . ." His voice trailed off, the sentence left unfinished.

When he didn't say anything more, John asked, concerned, "Sherlock? Is something wrong?"

After a few moments of contemplative silence, Sherlock replied, "I was just thinking. . .his brother. My great-grandfather. His name was Mycroft. I never thought of that before. Interesting."

"This is a bit creepy."

"Nonsense," Sherlock scoffed with a wave of an elegant hand. "Just coincidence. Life is full of them. You can't read too much into them."

"I thought you don't believe in coincidences."

"As a rule. But sometimes, a fluke is simply a fluke. Logic has no say in the matter."

John grinned. "I bet that was difficult for you to admit."

"I admit when I'm wrong," Sherlock replied, haughtily. "It just doesn't happen often."

"So what was he like?" John asked, intrigued. "Your great-uncle Sherlock?"

"Don't know. Never met him. He died long before I was born."

"No family stories?"

"Just that he was a bit. . .eccentric."

John laughed at that. "An eccentric Holmes? Stop the presses!"

"Oh, piss off," Sherlock replied with a grin. "At least we're not a dull lot."

"Heaven forbid." John looked down at the packet of letters on the floor, his brow creasing. "I wonder why they were never sent."

"Only one way to find out." Sherlock slipped a fingernail under the edge of the envelope flap and pried it open.

"Oi!" John protested. "Hang on! Those letters are addressed to me."

"I highly doubt it."

"They say John Watson. And *I* am John Watson," John stated, emphatically. "So I get to read them."

"Yes, but *I* wrote them!" Sherlock countered.

"Then you should know exactly what they say already," John pronounced, smugly. "Whereas *I* don't."

"John, that is the most asinine. . ." Sherlock's indignant response tapered off as he glared at his friend, his partner, his lover for a long moment before muttering a huffy, "Fine," and handing the envelope over. "Go to it."

John pulled the letter carefully from its envelope and in the bright summer sunlight, he began to read aloud:

_" 'May 24, 1889_

_My dearest Watson,_

_I sit here alone, pen in hand, trying to find words to commit to paper that can adequately describe what I am feeling, and lo, I have discovered it to be a futile undertaking at best. It would seem I must reluctantly admit I have done you a disservice all these years in deriding your narrative endeavors. It is indeed much harder than it at first appears._

_You have been gone a fortnight now, my friend, and our rooms are intolerably quiet and colourless without your presence. My world is intolerably quiet and colourless without your presence. How did I live so many years without it? How did I ever abide this unbearable existence before you came into my life?_

_I miss you, dear Watson, more than I imagined I would. Your infectious laughter that used to fill the room. Your stimulating conversation that used to fill my days. Your surprising insights that I must confess helped me more times than I care to admit. Your constant companionship was a joy to me, just knowing I would see your friendly, familiar face each day. Oh, how I miss that, and more. Much more._

_So many things, Watson, I wish I could have said to you, emotions and desires I have been forced to hide. And you, with your infinite patience, and legendary compassion, you would have listened and refused to judge. Times I wish I could have held you close to me, not as friends would touch. To kiss your lips with all the passion I hold for you in my heart. Urges that I have held in check for years I would experience with you, only you, my dear Watson._

_I know these words are shocking, and I only have the courage to write them knowing that you will never read them and learn the depths of my deception. My feelings for you, though wrong in the eyes of society, are nonetheless true and real and a torment I hope you will never suffer. Please understand that I endure the agony of this impossible love to keep us safe, my friend. I hardly care what others think of me, but I would do anything to prevent the stigma from following you. I would do anything for you, dear Watson. My life, and my heart, are forever yours._

_Affectionately,_   
_ Sherlock Holmes' "_

Tears formed in John's eyes as he read the impassioned words. "My god, that is so sad, to think he had to hide his feelings away."

"He did the right thing," Sherlock replied, softly.

"How can you say that?" John sputtered, incredulously. "I mean, 'My feelings for you are wrong . . .'? That's preposterous! The only thing that's wrong is that he couldn't express his love to the man he desired."

"It was a different time, John," Sherlock tried to soothe. "A homosexual relationship would not have just been against all of society's mores, it was actually illegal. Look at what happened to Oscar Wilde. My great-uncle could have never revealed his feelings for his friend, not if he wanted to keep himself, and this Watson fellow, safe and free of scandal."

"It's still not fair," John insisted. "Love should never be wrong."

"Victorian England thought otherwise."

With great tenderness, John refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope. "Well, I for one think your great-uncle was a brave man. I don't think I could have kept a secret love like that under wraps."

"No," Sherlock agreed with a smirk. "As I seem to recall, you couldn't."

"Like I had a choice," John chuckled. "If I had waited for you to make the first move, we both would have been old men." He handed the letter back to Sherlock, who slipped it back in the packet with the others. "Do you think all these letters are like that? Heart-felt declarations to an unrequited love?"

"We have no idea if the love was unrequited," Sherlock pointed out. "As for the rest of these letters, we won't know what's in them until we open them."

"Do you think Watson felt the same way?" John asked, hopefully. "Perhaps he was just as afraid to say anything? Maybe that's why he left?"

"Possible," Sherlock conceded, "but without data, it's useless to speculate."

"One explanation of some of the facts, not the only explanation of all of the facts," John recited.

Sherlock gave an approving nod. "You're learning."

"I'm trying."

"Right. So at this point, all we know for certain is what great-uncle Sherlock felt when he wrote these letters." Glancing down at them, he added a dismissive, "Why he wrote so many with no intention of mailing them is rather baffling."

"Could be he just had to get it off his chest, and he didn't have a skull to talk to," John joked.

"John, leaving off just how inane that sounds, there's the fact that he left himself vulnerable by keeping such incriminating evidence lying around. If someone had found them, there could have been dire consequences."

"Maybe that was the point, that someday someone more open-minded would find them, and know what was in his heart."

Sherlock shook his head and grinned. "You really are a romantic sot, aren't you?"

"Just because I want to believe in true love and a happy ending? Yeah, I suppose I am,” John snapped back, sarcastically. "You really nailed it. Good detecting work there."

Taken aback by John's suddenly tetchy tone, Sherlock said, "I didn't mean to imply there was something wrong with romance."

"I know," John replied, giving Sherlock a sheepish, reassuring smile. "It's not that. It's just. . ." He shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, "I guess I just feel bad for Watson, that's all."

"How so?"

"Well, if someone loved me that much, as much as Holmes obviously loved him, I would want to know about it."

Sherlock reached out and clasped John's hand in his. Bringing it up to his lips, he gently pressed a kiss to the palm. "Don't you?" he asked, gently.

John's fingers tenderly stroked along Sherlock's cheek. "Yes, I do," he sighed, warmly. "And this is exactly what I mean. Holmes should have had moments like this with Watson, but they were denied the chance to have what we are lucky enough to share."

"You're assuming my great-uncle's advances would have been welcome."

"You don't think they would have been?"

"As we've established--we need to know how Watson felt, and even at that, it's still conjecture if they ever disclosed their desires to each other which does us absolutely no good. It certainly doesn't get us any closer to finding mummy's tiara."

"You're right," John conceded. "It's just. . .I can't help it! I want to know more, I want to figure it all out."

Sherlock smirked. "Welcome to my world."

"Aren't you just the least bit intrigued to know more about your relative and this man?"

"I wasn't. But seeing you all lit up like a Christmas tree over this, I'll admit it has piqued my interest. Still, a century-old case won't be easy to solve."

"If anyone can do it, it's you," John said, confidently.

"Us. *We'll* solve it. So. . .what's our first step?" Sherlock encouraged.

"The letters. Maybe there's something in one of the other letters," John suggested. "Or maybe Watson left something behind somewhere. We could track down that address in Westbourne Terrace and see if there are any relatives that might know. . ." As he said the words, a sudden bright shaft of sunlight hit off one of the old leather-bound journals in the steamer trunk, drawing his attention and stopping him in mid-sentence. He cautiously reached in and pulled the book out; turning to the front page, he started to read out loud:

" 'From the reminiscences of John H. Watson, MD, late of the Army Medical Department (1).' " He paused as his mind processed what he had just read. "My God, I was a doctor!" he ejaculated. "I mean, this John Watson was a doctor. And an army doctor at that."

"Well, England has constantly been involved with wars all over the world," Sherlock pointed out. "And their armies would certainly need doctors."

"Yes, I suppose. Still. . .rather odd coincidence."

"And that's all it is, John. Just a coincidence."

"Right." He turned his attention back to the journal and started reading again. " _'In the year of 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through the course prescribed for surgeons in the army.' (1)_" Again John paused. "Not just a doctor, but a surgeon."

"Which would have made him quite valuable to Queen and Country."

"Is that a compliment?" Sometimes it was hard to tell with Sherlock.

Sherlock just grinned. "Most definitely, my dear Captain."

"Prat," John laughed, returning to the journal entry. "_ 'The regiment was stationed in India at the time and before I could join it the Second Afghan War had broken out. ' (1)"_ He looked up at Sherlock in stunned amazement. "He was in Afghanistan."

"That region has been in upheaval for most of recorded history," Sherlock noted. "Many men have fought in those lands, including those from Britain."

"That's true," John agreed before reciting more of Watson's tale. _" 'I served at the fatal battle of Maiwand. There I was stuck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone. . .' (1) "_ John paused, an uneasiness growing within him. "Jesus, that's so. . .that sounds like what happened to me."

"It's a war, John," Sherlock reminded him. "Men get shot in war."

"I know but. . ." John trailed off and sighed. "You're right. Lord knows I saw enough of it over there." He dropped his eyes back to the page and picked up the narrative once more. " _'For months my life was despaired of, and when at last I came to myself and became convalescent, I was so weak and emaciated that a medical board determined that not a day should be lost in sending me back to England.' (1)_" By now, the hand that was holding the journal was shaking. That hand never shook. "Sherlock. . ." he started, his voice quavering.

"Coincidences," Sherlock cut him off. "Injured men get sent home. That's how it works."

"But really, the parallels to my life. I mean. . . he was an army doctor. In Afghanistan. Shot in the shoulder and invalided home? Who just happens to be named John Watson? I'd call that creepy."

"I'd go with curious," Sherlock countered, as he peered into the opened steamer trunk.

"You would." John scanned over the next couple of pages. "Here he talks about meeting up with an old friend who introduced him to Sherlock Holmes and how they set up lodgings together in Baker Street. Oh! And there's a mention here of a Mr. Lestrade, who was, and I quote, 'a well-known detective'. That doesn't give you chills?"

"Not particularly," Sherlock replied calmly, retrieving an old magnifying glass from the corner of the trunk. "Gregory has said there have been coppers in his family for as long back as anyone can remember. I suppose they figure they'll just keep doing it until they get it right."

"And it seems Holmes was one, too. A detective, that is, though not with The Yard. Says here that Holmes used to help out other detectives on their cases when they'd hit a dead end." John smirked at his friend. "It would appear that you went into the family business without even knowing it."

Sherlock held the magnifier up to his eye, pretending to study John. "Indeed?"

"You're still not spooked yet?"

"Not at all," Sherlock said, carefully replacing the lens to its resting spot. "There's a very high probability that I may have heard my relatives discussing my great-uncle and his work at some point in my formative years and the idea for such a profession stayed with me."

"I can't believe you don't find this all just a bit freaky."

Sherlock sighed, dramatically. "They're coincidences, John. That's all. Simple happenstances. We haven't been reincarnated, if that's what you're thinking."

John didn't admit that was exactly what he had been thinking. "So I suppose you wouldn't be surprised to learn that most of this journal appears to be Watson's accounts of some of Holmes's adventures?"

"Cases, John," Sherlock corrected. "If Holmes was a detective, he had cases, not adventures."

"Not according to Watson," John countered, flipping through the journal and reading the headers aloud. " 'The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle'. 'The Adventure of the Creeping Man'. 'The Adventure of The Abbey Grange'. 'The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire'. Oooh, that one sounds good."

"Makes 'A Study in Pink' sound like a stroke of genius," Sherlock quipped as he picked up one of the apiculture books.

"Well. . .?"

Sherlock glanced up from the book, his brow creased in confusion. "Well . . . what?"

"Well. . .I do the same for you," John commented. "Doesn't that strike you as even just a bit eerie?"

"Not necessarily. All great men should have chroniclers."

"Yes, but not all chroniclers have to be named John Watson."

"No, just the lucky ones," Sherlock replied with a grin. "So what else does he have to say about great-uncle Sherlock?"

"Lots. He wrote about his style of dress. His mannerisms. His detection methods." Suddenly John burst into laughter. "Oh, this is brilliant."

"What is?"

"He made a list of Holmes's limitations."

"His what?"

"_ 'Knowledge of literature, philosophy, and astronomy--nil. Knowledge of politics--feeble. Knowledge of botany--variable. Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening. Knowledge of chemistry--profound. Plays violin well.' (1)"_ John smiled over at Sherlock. "Looks like the acorn didn't fall far from the tree."

"Pity I never met him," Sherlock retorted, putting down the book and investigating the rest of the trunk. "He gives every indication of being a very sagacious man."

"I don't even know what that means. But apparently he wasn't a big fan of Watson's writings."

"Judging by the titles he gave the cases, I'm hardly surprised."

"Adventures," John reminded him cheerily. "Regarding the write-up of one of their *adventures*, he told Watson, _'You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid.' (2)_ Ouch, that's harsh."

"Simply because he is articulate and honest in his literary criticism?" Sherlock sniffed, digging an old deerstalker hat out of the trunk. "I don't see a problem with that."

"Of course YOU wouldn't."

"Honestly, if his chronicler was anything like mine, I can understand his exasperation."

"I've told you before--if you don't like my blog postings, you can do them yourself."

"I am far too busy," Sherlock replied haughtily, as he fitted the hat over his head. "And besides, we need someone who can relate to the general public."

"You mean someone who can dumb things down for the unwashed masses."

"And you do it so well."

"Thank you. I think." Nodding at the be-capped Sherlock, he grinned, "That's a good look for you."

"Yes, I quite like it," Sherlock agreed, admiring his reflection in an old, dusty mirror. "Fashionable, edgy, might come in handy if I need to go incognito."

"Not as cool as a bowtie, though," John joked.

"Does every conversation with you have to include a Doctor Who reference?" Sherlock grumbled good-naturedly, as he removed the hat and folded it carefully.

"At least you're spotting the references now. I consider that a victory."

"I consider it a vast waste of my available brain capacity."

"If you need to free up some space, you could always delete that experiment with the mice and the deep fryer." Muttering under his breath, John added, "Lord knows *I* want to."

"Those results could be valuable someday," Sherlock argued. "I still don't trust that chippie on High Street. Now if you've had enough of playing Miss Marple, maybe you should put that book away so we can continue our search."

John ignored the suggestion, thumbing through a few more pages of the journal. "You know, I don't understand why Holmes was so critical. I like Watson's style. Listen to how he described one of their clients: _' Her expression was sweet and amiable, and her large blue eyes were singularly spiritual and sympathetic. In an experience of women which extends over many nations and three separate continents, I have never looked upon a face which gave a clearer promise of a refined and sensitive nature.' (2)_ Wow, I wish I could write like that."

"So what you're saying is that he got a leg over three separate continents, hmm?" Sherlock remarked, blandly. "Rather impressive for the era. It would seem that perhaps this Doctor Watson might indeed be a long-lost relative of yours. Although in your case it would be four continents and we'd have to throw some strapping blokes into the mix."

"Jealous, Sherlock?" John teased, as he flicked through the pages of the journal.

Sherlock shook him off with a wave of his hand and a derisive snort. "Nonsense."

John grinned, impishly. "You ARE jealous. That is so adorable. Though you must know by now that there's only you. . .oh. . ." The sentence cut off as a small envelope slipped from the journal and landed in John’s lap. He picked it up and opened it, reading the card that was inside. After a few moments, he said, "Oh" again, his face falling in disappointment.

"What's wrong, John?" Sherlock asked, concerned the joviality had come to such a sudden stop.

"I. . .um. . .I think I just discovered why Watson moved out of Baker Street," John said softly, handing the card over to Sherlock.

The great detective took just a moment to scan it, picking out words like 'cordially invited', 'wedding', 'Doctor John Watson', 'Mary Mortsan', and 'May 10, 1889.' "Ah," he said, handing the card back to John.

"Well, that settles that," John sighed, placing the invitation back in its envelope and sliding it into the journal. "I guess we now know how Watson felt."

"Never guess, John, and never assume," Sherlock reprimanded, sternly. "There are many reasons people marry, and for a gay man, especially in Victorian England, even more so."

"Three-Continents Watson, remember?" John pointed out. "I seriously doubt he was gay."

"Overcompensation," Sherlock shot back.

John laughed. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Usually," Sherlock concurred, relieved that John was handling the news of Doctor Watson's marital status with good grace. "Now, unless you have some other bizarre, coincidental tidbit you'd like to share, we should get back to the task at hand."

"Well, I wasn't going to mention it, but Watson did make note of their landlady." John paused for dramatic effect. "And her name was Mrs. Hudson. Now are you convinced?"

"John, I'm sure if we went through Mrs. Hudson's financial papers--which she most certainly would not appreciate--we are bound to discover that the rooms on Baker Street have been passed on through generations of Hudsons. Try again."

John's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Why bother? I give up. You're obviously not going to see just how fantastical this all is."

"And what do you find so fantastical? That people in the past with the same names as us and our associates have crossed paths?"

"No, that maybe I was fated or destined in some way to meet you."

"Is that what you want to believe?" A sudden, comprehending light shone in Sherlock's eyes. "OH! I see now. That's why you want to know about Watson and what happened to him and my ancestor. You want to see if we're fated to share the same future as they did. You want them to have a happy ending so that we will, too."

"No. Yes. I don't know." A nervous chuckle. "When you say it like that, it sounds ridiculous."

Sherlock almost said, 'Because it IS ridiculous', but managed to stop himself. For as silly as it sounded, this meant a lot to John--even if Sherlock couldn't understand why. "John, you know me. I don't believe in fate or destiny. I believe in tangible facts, and those facts tell me that our futures, our lives, will be spent together, because I refuse to go through life without you by my side."

John swallowed over the sudden lump in his throat before murmuring, "And you call me a romantic sop." Bending forward, he brushed his lips across Sherlock's. "Love you."

"Love you more."

"So what happened to your great-uncle?" John asked, as he returned the journal to the trunk. "Did he ever marry?"

"Nope. Dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. He eventually retired to Sussex--a lovely old cottage on the coast. Well, it probably wasn't old then, but it was when I visited. The family still uses it as a summer home. We would go all the time when I was young, but I haven't been there in years."

John gaped at Sherlock. "He moved to Sussex? With the vampire?"

Sherlock just gave him a look. "Well, if there WAS a vampire, it had long since moved on, as I never saw it."

"Then why Sussex?"

"Why not Sussex?"

"It's just. . .I don't know. He just seemed so much like you, and I can't quite picture you living out in the country. At least not voluntarily."

"Well, it's rather difficult to raise bees in London."

"Bees? Your eccentric great-uncle raised bees?" John noted Sherlock's raised eyebrow and chuckled. "What am I saying? Of course he did."

"Noble, industrious little creatures. That's where I developed my fascination with them. I would sit in the yard and watch the hives for hours." A pause, then an excited look crossed Sherlock's handsome features as he cried out, "The hives!"

"What?"

Sherlock nudged John out of the way, grabbing up the photo albums that rested in the steamer trunk. He began rifling through one of the books, then tossed it aside for another one. He was halfway through the third one when a sudden strong breeze gusted through the small open window and blew back the pages of the first abandoned album. Sherlock glanced down and exclaimed a surprised, "OH! Here it is!" As he carefully slid the picture from the page, John inched closer and leaned over Sherlock's shoulder to glance at the photo he held.

The picture was of two smiling elderly men, posing in front of a stone country home, the yard filled with a variety of flowers and scattered bee-hives. One man, long and lean, was reclining in a wicker lawn chair. He was well-dressed, with an aristocratic bearing. With his sharp nose and gaunt face, his receding salt-and-pepper hair neatly styled, he was obviously a Holmes. A sleeping bulldog pup was curled up in his lap, a slim, graceful hand frozen forever in mid-pet.

Another man stood behind him, a sturdy hand resting easily on one slender shoulder. Medium height and mustachioed, the white-haired man had a wide grin, laughing eyes and a rounded middle that spoke of a love of good food and good times. He was glancing down at Holmes with what could only be described as an adoring expression; Holmes was gazing up at the man with noticeable fondness.

Sherlock turned the photo over--the back was inscribed, "Me and my Boswell, Sussex, June, 1921."

"Boswell?" John asked, perplexed. "The puppy is named Boswell?"

"Boswell was Samuel Johnson's biographer," Sherlock corrected. "Perhaps a reference to Watson's journals." He pointed to the thinner man. "That's my great-uncle."

"Yes, I could tell. The family resemblance is striking." John took the picture from Sherlock and studied it for a moment. "So that's Watson?"

"Obvious."

"Healthy looking chap," John noted, lightly. "Doubt he's missed too many puddings."

"I think we're glimpsing your future if you don't lay off the custard crèmes, my love," Sherlock joked.

"Just more of me to cuddle," John countered. "Besides, I burn them off chasing after you all day long."

"True," Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Handsome man. I like the moustache. My great-uncle had good taste."

"So. . .they retired to the country together?"

"Yes, I believe so. It just came to me now, when we were discussing the hives. I remembered seeing pictures of the two of them hanging up around the cottage. I never took any real notice of them . . ."

"Too busy playing with the bees?" John teased.

"They were effective weapons against Mycroft. He was terrified of the little buggers."

John's eyes widened in surprise. " *Mycroft* afraid of something?' That's a first."

"He'd run around and scream like a little girl. Well, waddle around. It was quite amusing."

"You are awful," John snickered. "You actually make Harry seem like an angel." He glanced down at the picture again and smiled. "They look so happy."

"Yes, they do."

"Shame we'll never know if Holmes told Watson how he really felt, though in light of Watson's marriage, it's highly unlikely."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, a familiar knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Oh, he did, my dear John," he announced, confidently. "Holmes definitely told him."

"How can you be so sure?" John asked, curiously.

"Look at the picture, John. Really look at it."

John studied the photo for a minute or two. "Doing so. Not seeing anything."

"Their tie pins."

"The tie. . ." John looked at the photo again, focusing on the stylish pearl and onyx tie pins. It took him another minute or so before he said, "They're the same."

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I still don't understand. . ."

"Well, an actual wedding service between two men would have been impossible of course, but a private ceremony was quite doable. Just the two of them, plighting their troth--perhaps in that very yard. But how to mark the occasion? People can be so sentimental that way. Rings, while traditional, would have been out--too obvious, too many questions. They needed something only they would share and understand, a secret sign between the two of them. So. . . "

"They bought matching tie pins," John finished, awe evident in his voice. "They could flaunt their relationship openly, and no one would ever see it."

"People do tend to be quite oblivious to the most obvious things."

"Genius," John whispered, breathlessly.

"Of course it was genius. He was a Holmes," Sherlock pointed out, proudly.

"And he fell for a Watson."

"Well, I did say he had great taste."

"What do you suppose ever happened to Mary?" John mused.

"Died, most likely. Divorce wasn't as common back then as it is now."

John sighed, softly. "Poor Watson. So much adversity in his life."

"No more than the average person," Sherlock replied. "Certainly no more than you. And from the evidence, it would appear that he came through it alright."

A small smile tugged at John's lips. "Well, he did have Sherlock Holmes in his corner."

"Exactly." Sherlock's long fingers glided over John's hand, the one still holding the picture. "Does that ease your mind a bit, John?" he asked, gently.

John nodded. "It does. I know it sounds silly, but if they could make it--if they could overcome everything they had to do to be together--then it gives me hope, too." As he placed the photograph carefully on top of the album, he added, "I do wonder, though, what Holmes said or did to convince Watson to abandon a life of womanizing and settle down in the country to raise bees."

The words had no sooner left his lips when a strong breeze whooshed through the attic, blowing open a second journal that had been pushed off to the side. Intrigued, John picked up the book and started to read:

_"In an instant, he had fired two shots. I felt a sudden hot sear as if a red-hot iron had been pressed to my thigh. There was a crash as Holmes's pistol came down on the man's head. Then my friend's wiry arms were round me, and he was leading me to a chair._

_"It was worth a wound--it was worth many wounds--to know the depth of loyalty and love which lay behind that cold mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. For the one and only time I caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as a great brain. All my years of humble but single-minded service culminated in that moment of revelation._

_" 'It's nothing, Holmes. It's a mere scratch.’ (3)"_

Sherlock, who had been following along over John’s shoulder, picked up the narrative, his melodious voice low and full of emotion: "_His face set like flint as he glared at our prisoner. 'By the Lord, it is well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive.’ (3)"_

Both men fell quiet, mulling over Watson's entry, thinking how close it mirrored their own lives and feelings for each other. Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "I must say, I believe my great-uncle was wrong. Doctor Watson really had a way with words. An extraordinary man."

"They both were," John readily agreed. "A perfect pair."

Sherlock regarded his friend for a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face--one that John had come to both eagerly anticipate and dread in equal measures. The one that said, 'I'm about to be BRILLIANT!’ "You know, John, I think that once we wrap up this most puzzling case of the vanishing tiara, we should take a vacation. Get out of the city for a while. Look in on the cottage, check up on the bees."

John gestured to the journal sitting in his lap. "Catch up on some reading."

Sherlock brushed at a smudge of dirt on John's face and smiled. "And. . .other things."

"You always have the best ideas." They both leaned in for a more intense kiss, Sherlock's hand reaching around and cradling the back of John's head; John's hand reaching down and clasping Sherlock's thigh. But just when things were getting interesting, they heard a voice from down below:

"Sherlock? Have you found anything yet, dear?"

"Nothing yet," he called back.

"Well, you boys come down and cool off for a bit. You can look some more after lunch."

Sherlock stood gracefully--as he did everything--and reached down a hand to help John up.  
"Come, John. Get dressed. Don't want to give the staff a show."

As they made their way towards the attic stairs, John shrugging into his dusty, sweaty shirt (and really wishing he had thought to bring a change of clothes) a sudden shaft of sunlight cut through the dusty dim, its slow calm beam searching out a dark corner and finding an expertly cut emerald, its deep green hue glowing magically in the empty gloom. The resulting sparkle stopped the two men in their tracks.

"Sherlock. . ." John gasped

"Yes, I see it," Sherlock finished, as he stepped over to the darkened corner and carefully plucked out the sought-after tiara. With a smile, he showed it off to John. "The case, my dear Watson, has been solved!"

"Thank goodness," John sighed. "Now we won't have to return to this Turkish bath." His eyes cut over, back to the old steamer trunk, and he smiled. "Well, maybe we can come back up and do some more exploring after the sun goes away. And I get a shower in."

"Don't bother," Sherlock purred low and seductive. "I only plan on getting you all dirty again anyway."

"In mummy's house!?" John feigned shock, betrayed by the mischievous twinkle in his eye. "You naughty boy."

"Never did have a knack for all those proper manners," Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin as, hand-in-hand, they descended the stairs, small snippets of conversation trailing in their wake:

"I was thinking--maybe I could type up those journals and put them up on my blog. Let the world know about your brilliant relative and his stalwart companion."

"I wonder if great-uncle Sherlock left any notes about his experiments back at the cottage."

"Perhaps we could plight our troth in the garden."

"Perhaps. Someday. Have you ever considered growing a moustache, John?"

"Absolutely not!" followed by joint laughter.

When they were gone, and the attic was once more dark and empty save for the stray shaft of sunshine and the occasional puff of air, the echo of a bemused voice fluttered through the room. "You just can't stop showing off, can you, Holmes?"

A haughty response flowed from the ray of light. "I was just helping out the boy, Watson. Same as you, pointing the good doctor in the right direction."

"If I had known he'd make a snide remark about my weight, I wouldn’t have bothered," the wind huffed. "And anyway, he needed the help. Sherlock appeared to be doing just fine on his own."

The sunbeam drifted lazily across the room until its light hit the abandoned picture on top of the photo album, caressing it gently, lovingly. "Not on his own," the affectionate murmur floated in the silence. "He has his Boswell now. And may he bring as much joy to the boy's life as mine did."

A warm, slightly embarrassed chuckle tinkled merrily in the breeze. "You sentimental fool."

"You should talk," came the equally warm reply. "After all, it was your idea to visit the old homestead last year."

"I loved that cottage," the wind wistfully sighed. "We had so many good years there."

"Indeed we did. Remember that time in the garden. . .?"

"Holmes!" If wind could blush, it would have done so at that moment.

"Really, Watson, I do not recall you sounding so scandalized at the time."

"We took out my entire posy patch!" the breeze bristled indignantly.

"They grew back. And I believe our energetic congress that day brought a greater smile to your face than those fanciful blooms ever did, lovely though they were." The sunshine's smugness was unmistakable.

Exasperation infused the air. "How is it that even now, you are the most incorrigible man I have ever met?"

"And yet you find yourself stuck with me for all time. Bad luck there, old fellow."

"Yes, I must have done something absolutely dreadful in my life to be cursed with this eternal punishment." The teasing smile could be heard on the summer zephyr.

"Me, too, apparently. And could I do so, I would again. A hundred times over."

The breeze rippled happily. "As would I."

"Perhaps we should go back and visit the cottage once more. We can peek in on your posies."

"You just want to check up on the boy again."

"No," the sunshine confessed, its words filled with undisguised longing. "I just miss my bees."

"Oh, Holmes!" the gust of wind chortled heartily. "You old softy!"

"Only for you, my dear, dear Watson," the shaft of light answered in kind.

Together the sunbeam and the breeze caressed the fading photograph reverently one final time, and were gone.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> (1) "Study in Scarlet" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
> 
> (2) "The Sign of Four" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
> 
> (3) "The Adventure of the Three Garridebs" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
> 
> Further A/N: I purposely did not take all of Watson's journal entries directly from the original ACD's stories. The reasons for this is I didn't want to steal too much from the master, and also, I didn’t want TOO many 'coincidences' to exist between Doyle verse and BBC verse, even though they're all there. For my story, I ran with the idea that Holmes's 'adventures' were never published for whatever reason, so Watson's writings are not as detailed or polished as ACD's. 
> 
> I hope that doesn't offend or confuse any purists out there who might read this story.
> 
> Also, Jeremy Brett and Edward Hardwicke were the inspiration for the photo of Holmes and Watson. Except for the pudgy part, of course. ;-)


End file.
